Sometimes, things get lost in translation. This phenomenon probably accounts for at least ninety percent of my failures to communicate in Rwanda. But sometimes, even when you say all the right things, the response is still completely nonsensical.
Rwandan children are the masters at this sort of subtle mind game. Case in point? The Kevins. My housemates' five young children have been visiting for the past month. Normally they live in Gisenyi, but came to Rubona for part of the Christmas holidays. As three of them clustered around my door, watching me unpack from two weeks of GLOW/BE camp (see previous post for a full explanation as to why I was already in a fragile state of mind), I asked them their names.
"Kevin!" the first boy chirped.
"Wowe, wi twande?" I asked the second boy.
"Kevin!" came the immediate reply.
At this point, I probably should have just cut my losses, closed my door, and gone to bed. Instead, with a growing suspicion of inevitable failure, I turned to the little girl.
"Wowe, wi twande?"
"Kevin!"
Now, it doesn't take a sharp investigative mind to deduce that at least one person in this scenario was not being entirely truthful. Sure, the truth might have been out there, but my bed was nearer. So I politely wished the Kevins a good night, schooed Brandon away from my pillow, and went to sleep.
Speaking of Brandon, he has recently gone through a growth spurt. I think he might be entering the rebellious teenage years, as he has taken to sulking near my scarves. I just hope he doesn't start bringing home any lady friends. I am not ready to be a grandmother.
It's been raining something biblical in Rwanda the past month, and I was dismayed, if not entirely surprised, by how much of my mountain had eroded while I had been away. Thankfully the main road is still perfectly passable, if a little worse for wear.
One beautifully sunny morning last week, I decided to trek down to Rusumo and go to the market. This is more or less my weekly routine; by now I know all the shortcuts and goat paths--I just put my feet on autopilot and my brain on pause for the hour it takes to get there.
The path to Rusumo isn't necessarily bad or treacherous, but it certainly qualifies as rustic. Especially the wooden bridges. Wooden bridges that are essentially a few (or just one) tree trunks. Wooden bridges that I have crossed dozens of times without a problem. Until suddenly, there was a problem.
The most worrisome of the bridges sits about seven feet above a muddy, rocky stream. It is hastily composed of two wooden logs, spaced just far enough apart as to make it impossible to cross comfortably. I've crossed it in the rain, in the mud, wearing flip-flops--so on this sunny morning, wearing hiking boots, I got overconfident. They say that pride comes before a fall, but I didn't expect such a literal demonstration of the old adage.
One moment I was happily skipping across the bridge, the next I was lying flat in the stream, murky red water running rampant over my new jeans, and profanity and hysterical laughter running rampant out my mouth. Looking back, I can tell that I've been in Rwanda for far too long. My first thought wasn't "oh no, I hope I'm not hurt" but rather, "oh no, how am I going to walk through town with all this mud on me?!"
Fortunately, my tolerance for abject humiliation is fairly high, and there was no way I was walking an hour back to my village just to get clean clothes. So it was off to the market, looking like a creature from the lagoon, and feeling like one too. But don't worry mom and dad, aside from my ego, I only had a few minor bruises on my leg and shoulder...
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